Assume Room Temperature
by kyokao
Summary: Lance's first murder was when he was in second grade. Lance never thought about what he was doing as a kid, and he wasn't about to do it now. Lance meets a Reaper that he falls for, and keeps killing to see him more often. Crossposted on Wattpad and Ao3


Lance's first murder was when he was in second grade. Technically, he didn't actually do anything but lead the poor woman to his house; his eldest brother, Ermano, did the rest. This became a routine with Lance leading women to his house, pretending to be a lost little boy, and Ermano taking them apart in their basement. The lack of parents in the house due to work and travel made it easy for this to happen. It also meant that, because of being the oldest, Ermano was always in charge. Cordaro, the second eldest and the oldest girl, was roped into the clean up.

At the time, there were only three people in the killing spree, but as their parents had more children, there were more hands on board. By the time Lance was seventeen, he had five siblings in total. Ermano, Cordaro, Xandria, Philo (nickname: Phil), and BeBe. Twenty-five, twenty-two, sixteen, ten, and six respectively.

But because there were more younger children in the house, and because of the two eldests actually having college classes and work, Mr. and Mrs. Mcclain stayed home more. Which cause a problem for the children's killing spree. Deciding it was too risky to continue, Ermano had stopped his operations in the house by moving away to a cozy condo in New York. Cordaro was studying as a lawyer as, and Lance quotes, "To atone for my crimes with putting up with Ermano's terrible acts."

Lance never thought about what he was doing as a kid, and he wasn't about to do it now.

.

.

.

"Lance, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course it is, babe!" He cocked his head. "I'm full of good ideas."

Nyma gave him a look of disinterest that said otherwise. Nevertheless, she followed the man in front of her reluctantly. The couple was treading under an overpass; way past curfew, and had some very illegal things.

When Nyma first met Lance, he'd been an over confident flirt, which he still was, but as she spent more time acknowledging him, the more rumors she overheard about him. She never imagined that him being caught up in illegal drug sales was true.

She sighed, surveying her surroundings. They seemed to be on a highway that lead to the middle of nowhere. If she was being honest, she wished she payed more attention to where Lance was even heading, because now she was all but scarred… and irritated. More irritated than scarred.

"Lance!" Nyma huffed. "What even are we doing at two in the morning, under a bridge, with a bag full of needles?" She needed answers. Now.

A pause passed between them before Lance even dared explain himself.

"Do you really want to know?" He answered. Cue 'are-you-kidding-me" look. "I kinda brought you and these drugs out here to kill you."

Nyma faltered. "Lance. That isn't funny."

He shook his head. "Oh, that wasn't a joke." The navy book bag in his hands fell to the ground with a thud. Kneeling down, Lance unzipped it to reveal something that definitely wasn't drugs. He examined the butcher knife while stalking forward to Nyma, who was backing away with every step he took. "You see, I've been waiting to do this for a while now. I just had to find a girl who would willing come with me one a," he paused, " 'drug deal.' "

The blade was glittering in the dark night. Nyma felt the dread in her stomach weigh down her legs. They wouldn't _move_. Lance's creepily calm face was worryingly getting closer. She couldn't think, she couldn't move. Her mouth was failing to form coherent sentences. Nyma was terrified.

"Just don't struggle, 'k? It makes it a lot harder than it needs to be, babe."

.

.

.

The clean up was always the most boring part in Lance's opinion. Leading his victims on was amusing. The actual killing was exhilarating. Cleaning up was so boring he could drop dead. But it was necessary if he didn't want to be caught and locked up in prison for his entire life.

Considering he was in the middle-butt-fuck-nowhere, Lance could be as loud as he wanted to. Pushing on a playlist, Lance set his phone down, rocking out to the music as he was chopping up his ex-girlfriend. His clean ups were easy and pain free. Just chop up the body as much as he could then feed it to the pigs that resided in the nearby farms. Pigs were practically a murderer's best friends considering that they will eat literally anything.

"Is this fucker really listening to Shakira while he's chopping up this girl's tits?"

Lance's mind short circuited. In that moment, he let out the least unmenacing scream known to mankind. He contorted his body fast enough to give himself whiplash, trying to look for the mysterious yet condescending voice.

It belonged to a guy, obviously some sort of asian descent, who was current hovering over him, inspecting the body.

"Um, dude," Lance croaked, still not over having a metaphoric heart attack. " What's up with your clothes?"

The stranger was wearing a white turtleneck that was tucked under a black vest. High-waisted, black pants were held up by a brown belt. To top it off, a checkered monochrome suit jacket that was one size too big, covered the man's odd outfit. It was definitely strange to Lance. Nobody dressed like that anymore. Comparatively to Lance's blue and white long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and converse, this guy was a blast from the past.

Not to mention, did that guy have a _mullet_?

…It was kind of hot. His eyes were unnaturally bright and unnaturally purple.

"You are chopping up a dead body, and that's the first thing you ask me?" The man deadpanned. "Wait, how can you even see me?"

Okay, now Lance was confused. "I'm not blind? I can feel you breathing down my neck, dude." Lance, in fact, did not feel his breath. Honestly, Lance wasn't even sure if this guy was breathing. Period.

Mr. Mullet, Lance oh-so lovingly nicknamed the stranger, furrowed his brows in confusion or thinking. Lance couldn't decide. Probably both. Most likely. The silence that ensued was definitely awkward when Lance realized that he had _just murdered someone_ , and that there was someone who was _alive_ standing _right behind him_.

Mr. Mullet finally decided to speak. "Stay calm, but… I'm a Reaper."

Lance totally freaked out. "Wait-what? You're a… a Reaper!"

"Yeah, and you're kinda keeping me from doing my job."

"Oh."

Reapers collected souls and such. At least, that's what the legend says. And Lance totally just killed a person. But how was Mr. Mullet supposed to even get Nyma's soul? What even was a soul to begin with?

A flash of red light radiated from the man's hand. A long, curved blade that was attached to an even longer pole slided out of the light. It was covered in the same red before the light died, and it revealed to be a black scythe. Was this kid emo or something? Everything he wore or owned so far was monochrome.

Suddenly, he raised it up high, and swung it down with a clean cut through Nyma's body. Another light shone, but this time it was a mustard yellow. It seeped out through the cut, and bubbled up into the air, like the liquid in a lava lamp did, into a sphere.

"Woah." Lance was in awe. So that's how a soul looked like. He looked back at Nyma, and the big gash that the scythe made was gone. Interesting. Mr. Mullet grabbed the soul with his free hand, and started heading down the road. Away from Lance.

Scrambling to his feet, Lance tried to catch up to the Reaper. He wanted to know more about him. Said man stopped dead in his tracks, and looked up at Lance. ' _I'm taller than him.'_ Lance thought.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"My name's Lance."

He gave Lance a are-you-really-asking-me-this?

"Keith."


End file.
